Erotic City (7 page)

The movie had been long over. Jarod closed his eyes and lost himself in his own visual production. He again sounded like his moans were about to turn into grunts.

She kept her focus upon his balls. They were drenched with her repeated saliva that ran down from his dick. Just as her jaw began to cramp, he slowed down, squeezed his base, and said, “Here, baby. Take this.”

She quickly met his tip with her wide-open mouth, and he released his hand, shooting his hot, cloudy cum into her mouth. She took every drop and swallowed while looking up at him with big, receiving eyes.

She wiped her mouth and stood. Through the mirror, Tamiko watched him watch her backside with a satisfied look on his face.

She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. Her feet pressed upon the Spanish limestone. In the dark, she sat upon the toilet and peed, rubbing the sweat from her forehead. Even when she was done, she sat still. She heard him speak to her.

“You handled me like a champ.”

She remembered him telling her the first time they had sex that most women complained that he took too long. Most women would only get theirs and then go to sleep. He said one woman referred to sex with him as one long boregasm.

“You just don’t give up,” he said.

She sat still, without a reply. Unsatisfied and exhausted.

She stood and flushed the toilet and then turned on the light and the shower. She climbed inside, slid the chocolate shower curtain closed, and squeezed the almond body wash onto her hands. Tamiko rubbed between her legs and all over her skin and to her breasts. She removed the elongated showerhead and lowered it toward her pussy. The pulsating aim of the spraying water shot upward at the point of her fleshy vulva and her heated shaft. It teased her tender meaty point. She relaxed her muscles and brought the tip of her finger up to the spot of her clit, rubbing her finger back and forth. And Tamiko brought herself to a slow, quiet climax, gently squeezing her ass and thigh muscles as she busted a good, self-servicing nut of her own.

She sighed and rinsed her body and returned the showerhead to its place. She turned off the water, hearing her no-girl-head-giving boyfriend in the throes of a deep, I got mine, loud-ass snore. As usual.

He would need to get up and head to work in an hour.

She went into the den and sat, in thought, wondering, “Is that all there is?”

9

“Controversy”

Sunday, March 30, 2008
11:15 p.m.

T
he bright neon lights read E.C. The initials shone loudly outside of the erotic club of swing in the heart of Hotlanta. It was considered fairly early as far as the club was concerned, yet the parking lot was nearly full.

The tuxedo-clad valet had been busy since the doors had opened at nine o’clock. Parked down the street were two news vans, both with satellites perched high up into the black sky. The photographers and reporters kept their distance but also kept a close eye on the front door as though waiting for something else to happen, for someone well known to show up and get their freak-nasty on, or perhaps waiting to catch the club’s owner for an impromptu interview. Only, Milan had made sure to arrive early in the afternoon, way before the madness she’d so correctly predicted.

Inside, Milan sat in her office, eyeing the goings-on from the top floor as always. She sat back with her legs crossed, swiveling in her high-back chair with her mind racing. She spoke toward the speakerphone.

“Don’t they know we have no liability in this thing? And they’d better not photograph the cars in my parking lot. That’s a gross invasion of privacy. Am I the only one who sees this?” She tapped her long fingernails along her desktop. “I mean, some famous guy patronizes us and all of a sudden we’re responsible for his actions. Not that I believe the accusations in the least.” She stood up, wearing her grape pants suit, and walked across the Persian rug to the front window.

Family friend and lawyer Hunter Wyatt replied, “Milan, as you know, because it happened on your premises, and because of the celebrity status of the accused, this is big news. It’s not like it happened at a local restaurant or at a park. The world of swingers is mysterious enough so people are curious. You know you can’t blame them for that.”

Milan spoke just short of loud while she gave a peek through the vertical blinds. “Well, I guess next thing, we’ll see
Entertainment Tonight
or
TMZ
out there. People who come here deserve some privacy.”

“I understand that.”

“But, Hunter, I’ll tell you who I can blame, aside from Ramada herself.” She made her way to her desk and sat along the corner while she grabbed her hair and fluffed out her length. “What I can do is blame the prosecutors. They know that each and every person who steps through that door signs a waiver, stating that we are not responsible for the decisions our patrons make while they’re in here. We have very strict rules and you know as well as I do that there was no knife.” Milan grabbed an ink pen and scribbled circles upon a Post-It.

“Do we really know that?”

“No one found a knife. We have metal detectors at the door. We don’t even allow cell phones.”

“Maybe so, but because one of Big Mack’s bodyguards left before anyone knew what was going on, he could have snuck a knife out of there. And it didn’t have to be metal.”

She paused her cryptic artwork. “Oh I see what you’re doing, Hunter. You’re playing devil’s advocate. Very good. But that’s my point. He still never would have gotten in here.”

“Anything is possible, Milan.”

“Maybe. But it would be highly unlikely.”

“Look, I know you don’t want any unnecessary attention to your club. This should blow over. It’s just the news of the day because of the curiosity about Big Mack’s lifestyle. Especially because he’s married.”

“Yeah well, married or not, that’s on him and his wife.”

“Seems she’s left him already. I guess she had no idea he was into swinging and she told a radio station they’re through. She also knows he had some stripper come in with him so he could get in as part of a couple.”

“Now, that is true.”

“Anyway, from what Ramada Hart says, she wasn’t willing to finish her act upon him, wife or no wife. She tried to stop performing, and as you know, she says she was forced to finish.”

“I know I’ve told you about her past relationship with Lavender. They have a child together and she’s been dealing Lavender hell cards from the day their son was conceived. Plus, she came in here with her so-called man and then went to another room to give a blow job without him so much as knowing she was anywhere other than in the ladies’ room. She puts the
D
in
drama
. I think she wanted to start some mess since Lavender’s still with me, and she did it one year to the day that she lost him. But, this is really a case between her and Big Mack. I’m all for standing up for victims who’re forced to do anything they choose not to participate in, but other than not allowing either back in here, there’s nothing much I can do. Shoot, if you came in here to get your freak on it would be none of my business. But, that would never happen, I’m sure.” She gave a mini laugh.

“Very funny. And you are correct. It never would. Not with my wife. Not without my wife. It’s simply not my cup of tea.”

“Like I said, that’s on you.”

“Point made. I understand. We’ll deal with this next week. Let me do what I do best, okay? Defending, not swinging. And I was able to get the date pushed back since the prosecution’s trying to find some more witnesses. Nothing’s happening right away. Just let me do this.”

Milan reached for a stack of mail, shuffling through the envelopes. “Okay. Go ahead. And I’m sorry about that little jab. You know me.”

“Yeah. What I do know is you got your determination from your dad. That’ll get you far, Milan.”

“I just want to get past this. Sorry to call you at home so late.”

“No problem. Anytime.”

“Good night.” Milan hung up, though she was not impressed by the fact that Attorney Wyatt used the word
anytime
. Anytime should have been her dad’s former attorney’s response, as he was being paid by the hour. And paid well. The last envelope in the stack was a bill for his retainer fee at three hundred per hour for an estimated thirty hours of work. And that was supposed to be a reduced rate. But, as usual, his high price was well earned, and Milan knew it.

Lavender appeared at the door to Milan’s office looking like he was in full work mode. His adulation was evident. “Baby, do you know we’re at full capacity and we’ve only been open two hours? It’s amazing. We’ve never had a Sunday night like this since I’ve been here.”

Milan glanced over at one of the front door monitors. “We’ve never had a night like this period. Bad publicity is still publicity. I’m sure they’re just a bunch of lookie-loos. Curious folks window-shopping for some T&A. But it is impressive considering Channel 3 is camped outside.”

He pointed to the monitor as the bouncer screened a group of new members. “Baby, those people are doing more than looking. Eight out of ten beds in the group room are taken.”

“So, I guess we should thank your nutty ex-girlfriend then, huh?”

“Now, I didn’t say that.”

“Well, just know that I’d rather have an empty club and no drama than a packed house and court dates up my ass.”

“I’m with you.” Lavender headed back toward the office door. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you or this club. That is a promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Milan told him as he exited her office with a wink.

She talked out loud to herself, standing at the oversize one-way mirror, watching the crowded goings-on below. “I just have a bad-ass feeling about this. A real bad-ass feeling.”

10

“Sex Shooter”

Monday, March 31, 2008
1:15 a.m.

H
er name was Trudy.

She was a regular.

They called her Big Booty Trudy.

And she was a squirter.

A gusher.

A shooter.

A female ejaculator.

Trudy was called the eighth wonder of the world of sex kittens. A bombshell. Not only for her gi-normous, second-to-none backside, that was actually a twenty-pound moon, looking like two midgets were fighting to stay in or get the hell out. It would cause quite a commotion wherever she’d go.

But she was mainly known for her unique ability to cum in liquid form, shooting her fluid up to two feet ahead. Her waterworks talents were spellbinding.

Some men in the club would joke that it was raining whenever they’d see the twenty-seven-year-old’s stream a-flowin. Envious female haters would swear she was really peeing on herself, but either way, Big Booty Trudy had a way of erupting that was a sight for sore eyes. And those who were on the other side of her eruption usually shot their shit within two-point-two seconds just from the sheer amazement of it all.

Trudy laid it on the lucky stud of the evening with an expert wobble-wobble, shake-it shake-it move.

Her satiny chocolate flesh was needy.

She converged upon him, squatting in a reverse cowgirl. His dick peeled her lips apart. She pressed her pussy to its base.

Her back was branded with a cursive BBT. Her cheeks were flushed. Major spillage hung over each side of him.

Her roundness and girth pressed along his thighs. She did a solid bounce move, riding him like a pogo stick. It sounded like someone was getting their ass smacked with a wooden paddle. She gave new meaning to the term
more bounce to the ounce.

He didn’t get fucked.

He got bucked.

Her long weave was Shirley Temple curly and it swayed in direct response to her strong grind.

She always smacked on a wad of Bubbilicious watermelon bubble gum. She’d chomp down on it every time she got her fuck on.

Her wet pussy and massive ass ate his dick like she was downright hungry. She could toss a man around inside of her and slide up and down like his dick was a stripper pole. She was legendary.

She bounced upward, making sure to secure his tip entry and abruptly lowered herself to the base of his scrotum, plopping down hard.

She squeezed her inside muscles tight to grip his length, securing it all the way back, almost inserting it into the entrance of her cervix. His dick slid into place.

She bore down, screaming inaudible sounds, and shot four steady streams of colorless fluid outward, gushing straight forward onto the carpet in front of her and onto his legs. Her tight pussy throbbed.

“Uuungh,” he yelled like his tongue was tied up, catching a back-end view of her squirting eruption just as he shot four streams of cum deep inside of his glove, deep inside of her connoisseur vagina. His eyes leaped and his mouth flew open while she still swam in the downshift of her mighty orgasm. It smelled of sweet clover.

Nameless, he gave one more grunt and went rigid. “Damn, woman. What the hell?”

She spoke through her moans. “That’s just me, baby. That’s how I do it. You didn’t know?” She blew a large bubble that popped and then scooped it back in her mouth with her wide tongue. The light green wad was being converged upon just as his dick had been.

His eyes were still large. “That shit is crazy.”

“You struck gold,” she told the stranger. Her thick, soup-cooler lips smacked together.

She then kissed him like he meant something, scooped up her clothes, and stepped out of the private room.

With a still-hard dick, he just sat back in wonder of the sex-shooter extraordinaire, Big Booty Trudy, who was truly the shape of freaky things to cum.

11

“Ex-Girlfriend”

Monday, March 31, 2008
11:39 a.m.

T
he next morning after a long night of making sure the Erotic City patrons were on their best behavior, Lavender had already been up and out of his own house and to the gym. He was headed to Milan’s house.

Milan lay in bed. As usual she’d slept in her light brown birthday suit. She was half awake, thinking about how she needed to wash her hair and stop by the cleaners and buy some groceries for when Taj spent the night on Wednesday and pay the car insurance and talk to her attorney again about her greedy stepmother Nancy and the case involving loony Ramada. Milan’s brain was in overdrive.